


The Lady and the Toad

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-BBB, a lonely Sansa starts to look at her old love stories in a new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Old Fashioned Love Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitamere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitamere/gifts).



> For the LiveJournal Holiday Fic Exchange, a gift for kitamere, whose great big wide open prompt left me lots of room to wander. Happy Holidays!
> 
> Many many thanks to the people who tolerated my lunacy as I worked my way through this fic: AdultOrphan, The_Immaculate_Bastard, and SnowWhiteKnight. You ladies are the best!

She was back in Winterfell, wandering the halls as she had done thousands of times in her life though they had never felt so empty. Her footfalls echoed eerily with every step, her hand dragging along the stone walls, remembering their roughness, remembering their warmth. Home was hotter in this dream, but it was still home, and the sun shone unnaturally bright as if a reminder that this wasn’t real.

Her bedchamber seemed smaller- or mayhap she was larger- but it was still her room. That was the same bed she slept in every night of her life before she left for King’s Landing, the same mirror on the wall she sat before as handmaidens attended to her each morning, the same hairbrush her mother used to brush her hair on the occasional evening she sent her maids away.

“There you are,” a familiar voice said behind her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She turned in response towards that voice, gasping at what she saw: her mother, awash in light and smiling at her in the same way she always had.

“Sit, Sansa,” the woman commanded gently. “It’s been too long since I’ve brushed your hair.”

Sansa sat, dutiful as always, and eyed her mother in the mirror, noting the differences since last they saw each other. She was shorter now, somehow, but just as beautiful, mayhap even more beautiful. Or perhaps she had only forgotten what her mother looked like and the dream was her reminder. More than anything she wanted to throw her arms around the woman’s waist, just like she used to when she was very very small, because the feel of her mother’s embrace was another thing she had forgotten. But she was afraid the contact would remind her it wasn’t real and the dream would be over; she wasn’t ready for it to be over.

“Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“No,” Sansa snapped immediately. It was another reminder that this was unreal, because she would never speak so harshly to her own mother, not after missing her for so long.

“But you always loved stories,” the older woman remarked, completely unbothered by her daughter’s tone. “How about… Florian and Jonquil? Or Jenny of Oldstones? Oh, I know- the Lady and the Toad! You loved that story. Do you remember?”

“I loved it when I was a _child,_ ” the girl answered firmly, gentler this time. “I’ve grown up since you last saw me.”

The proof of it was right there, reflected in the mirror before her. It wasn’t just the womanly shape now obvious under her too-small dress- a detail she couldn’t escape even in dreams- but also in the haunted look in her eyes, the dullness in her skin. She wasn’t the little girl her mother remembered; she was frankly surprised her mother could recognize her at all.

“We never truly outgrow the things we love as children,” her mother responded. “I suspect you still love songs and stories, even now. _Especially n_ ow.”

“I do,” she admitted after a moment, because she _did._ “But I don’t _believe_ in them anymore. Not like I used to.”

“What’s to believe?” the older woman laughed. “They are the stories of your ancestors; not believing them doesn’t make them untrue.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sansa snapped, though there was little venom in it. “I hate liars.”

Catelyn cocked her head and fixed her daughter with a disapproving look. “Guard your tongue, daughter. I wouldn’t lie to you. The stories are true.”

Sansa sat sullenly, mulling over the words. As much as she found comfort in her mother’s familiar rebuke, she couldn’t get past her lie. “ _’The Lady and the Toad?’_ Mother, you cannot be telling me it’s true that a lady can turn a toad into a lord with a kiss. It’s simply not possible.”

“It is possible, dear, you’re just looking at it wrong.”

The woman continued to brush her daughter’s hair as if the matter had been settled, even though the matter in question was preposterous. _It’s the dream,_ Sansa thought. _Nothing makes sense in dreams, why should this?_  But then her mother looked up at her and smiled as if she knew her daughter’s doubts and wished to allay them.

“The lady wasn’t truly a lady,” she began patiently, returning to her brushing. “She was just a woman who was a lady on the inside. And the toad wasn’t truly a toad, he was just a man who was a toad on the inside.” Their eyes met in the mirror’s reflection as she tried to gauge whether Sansa comprehended, but she truly did not. “You still don’t understand?”

She shook her head and Catelyn sighed heavily, like she used to do with Arya though never with Sansa. But then she moved to stand in front of her, looking down at her with love in her eyes before trying, again, to explain.

“Sometimes, when men are withheld love and affection, they can become ugly. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Their hearts go unused for so long they shrivel up and turn black. And _sometimes_ , only the smallest bit of love can turn a blackened heart into something beautiful.”

“Sometimes men cannot be changed,” Sansa countered.

“This is true,” her mother agreed. “And sometimes their hatred and bitterness is in _spite_ of the love they’ve been given. But other times… if a man never had something as basic as love it can turn him ugly, he can become a monster. A toad. But he’s not irredeemable. If you show that toad a little love, even a little kiss, then sometimes he can become almost lordly. Does that make sense?”

It did. And it was a lovely but impractical thought. “Oh, mother... do you truly believe that?”

A funny look crossed Catelyn’s face and Sansa got the impression that she was thinking of something- _someone_ \- in particular. “Yes,” she replied after a while. “I do. And if _anyone_ has the power to turn a toad into a lord, it’s you. There’s much love in your heart, Sansa. You think it’s gone, that you’re broken and weak, but you have more power than you know. Those others with their harsh words and sharp steel can only cut things down, but you- you have the power to build things up. Guard your heart but show love wherever you can, and it will grow and spread like wildflowers. A world where love is growing is a better world, and you have the chance to make it so.”

Lady Catelyn Stark leaned in to her daughter and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and Sansa closed her eyes and accepted this small affection. It had been so long, so very long, since anyone had showed her love, and she wished with all her heart this moment could last forever.

When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the safety of home but in the godswood of the Red Keep. Night had fallen, and she was alone.

Sansa took a deep breath and let it all out slowly, the air that escaped making a puff of white that clouded her vision. It was cold in the godswood, even colder at night, and she had forgotten her cloak. That was many hours prior, though, when the sun was up and she was free to roam. No one had spared a thought when their political prisoner had wandered off to the godswood to pray, they cared little of what she did there, just as long as she was in her room at nightfall like a proper ward of the crown. Which she had obviously failed at.

Standing, her mind tried to develop a plan as her hands wiped sleep from her eyes and dirt from her dress. One of the Kingsguard would be holding the bridge, of course, and would no doubt tell Joffrey if she came wandering up to the holdfast at this late hour. But then a worse scenario occurred to her- what if Joffrey had already discovered her empty bedchamber and was now actively searching for her? Things would go very badly for her if this was the case. She had to return as quickly as possible, regardless of who held the bridge, but as she turned to exit she ran right into a wall of muscle. Strong hands gripped her elbows to steady her, but the Hound uttered not a single word.

Since the night of Stannis’ unsuccessful attack on the city, Sandor Clegane had been stripped of both his white cloak and his position as sworn shield. Ironically, this did not strip him of his duties- he still followed the king around, still stood behind him in the throne room, still executed whatever order Joff tossed his way, only now without any actual title for his responsibilities. She wondered, sometimes, if he was happier for it.

Not that she would ever ask. She hadn’t even really talked to him since that night, when he’d come to her room and said… but then he’d done… The memories were painful for her, even now. She had truly thought he would kill her then, and she hated him for that, for scaring her and threatening her when she’d done nothing to him. But then his words would creep back into her ears, when he told her those things… and she would hate him for _that_ , too, for making a promise he apparently never intended to keep.

Looking up at him now she was nervous, like she had been that night, but for reasons she couldn’t explain and reasons she didn’t want to think about, reasons that had nothing to do with Joffrey. The anxiety did not dissipate when he slowly released her from his grasp.

“Why are you here?” she demanded. It sounded like an accusation, even to her own ears, and judging by the way he bristled he must have thought the same.

“You weren’t in your room.”

It was not what she wanted to hear- if he was here to find her then Joffrey no doubt knew she was not where she was supposed to be. A punishment would certainly be meted out, though what the punishment entailed was always a surprise.

“Joffrey sent you?” she asked meekly.

He didn’t answer. Instead he unclasped his cloak, worn and rough-spun and enormous, and wrapped it around her shoulders, effectively shielding her from the chill. But there was something about the sudden warmth and his fingers under her neck that caused an involuntary shudder to course through her body.

“Do it yourself, then,” he snapped at her, then pointed behind him, a silent order for her to move. And she obeyed, as she always did, moving past him towards the middle bailey as he fell in line behind her, far enough away that he didn’t step on his own cloak. He was angry, she could tell, but it seemed he was always angry about something, so she would not worry about it. Or… would _try_ not to worry about.

She fastened the clasp of the cloak with one hand as they crossed the middle bailey, held her skirts up with the other hand when they began their descent of the serpentine. The climb down seemed to get longer every time she walked it, and now with the effects of sleep still making her drowsy it seemed to never end. By the time they reached the lower bailey she was out-of-breath and as sullen as her reluctant companion.

Ser Boros held the bridge, a reminder of another time the Hound escorted her to her room. The knight had also been stripped of his cloak and title, then reinstated, but the experience had cowed him a bit. He still spoke harshly to her, and treated her as if she were unimportant, but when he saw her walking with the Hound he pressed his mouth into a line and said nothing.

As they crossed the bridge Sansa slowed her steps, trying to maneuver herself so that he was walking beside her, but he would not allow it.

“Walk ahead of me, girl,” he spat. “You won’t have to see my pretty face.”

And there it was. As she entered the holdfast and began climbing the steps, she realized that she had offended him with her shudder, and his sour disposition was his way of retaliating. She hated when he did that- chastised her for some imagined transgression, as if averting her eyes was somehow as terrible as the things he’d done to her. It wasn’t even that he was truly that ugly. Well… he certainly wasn’t _handsome_ , by _any_ definition, but it wasn’t his looks so much as his demeanor that frightened her. When she looked in his eyes it was like seeing inside him, right to the anger and despair that festered beneath, and she hated seeing it, hated knowing that he felt that way. Like he couldn’t understand why someone might be kind towards him. Like no one had ever shown him love.

_if a man never had something as basic as love, it can turn him ugly_

Her hand rested lightly on the stone wall, its solid moorings providing her support both mentally and physically as she turned to him. His eyes were angry little slits, clearly puzzled by her behavior, but somehow, looking at him, she felt for the first time like she understood him.

_the smallest bit of love can turn a blackened heart into something beautiful_

He watched her as she moved towards him, stopping when she was on the next step up from him, nearly at eye level. And those eyes… it seemed she was looking right into the very depths of him, and she knew then that her mother had been correct.

“What’s the matter with you?” he growled, lip curling, mouth twitching.

“Nothing,” she whispered in response.

_show love wherever you can, and it will grow and spread like wildflowers_

She still saw the same anger and despair, of course, but there was something else, too, something that made her know that what she was doing was right and would help soothe him. So with the words of her dream still ringing in her ears, and before she could lose her courage, Sansa Stark placed both hands on either side of the Hound’s enormous head and pulled him in for a kiss.

His eyes went comically wide in horror, a sight that might have made her laugh if she wasn’t so nervous and focused on her task. He may have been surprised, but he did nothing to stop her, let her pull him closer, let her lean into him until their lips met. And it was… not what she expected.

It was the sweetest, tenderest kiss possible, and it was exactly how Sansa would have imagined it, except that it was with the Hound. She had never imagined kissing the Hound, but even she had to admit that he was surprising her. He hadn’t done anything to wrest control, was following her lead, and that power made her feel more comfortable, more confident. So when she felt his hands rest lightly on her hips she leaned in to him, stepped closer so that she could sense the warmth of his body though they weren’t truly touching.

His lips were dry, but warm and soft, even on the burned side. She could tell where his scars began- she had wondered about that- but it didn’t bother her like she thought it might, instead it seemed to reassure her, to calm her, though she couldn’t say why. And as he relaxed in her hands she allowed her instincts to take over.

Her mouth opened slightly to catch his lip in hers and he moved his own in response. It was still incredibly chaste, yet also incredibly intimate; she could almost taste him and decided she liked it, liked how it made her light-headed and giddy, as if she’d had too much wine. But it was a pleasant sort of dizziness, and she slipped her fingers through his hair and her arms around his shoulders, mostly to steady herself but for other reasons, too, ones that she wished not to think about.

She could feel him melting in her arms, feel the anger and sorrow and heartache flowing out of him- out of _both_ of them- pouring across the lower bailey, over the serpentine, and into the darkness. How long they kissed she could not say- it felt like a long time yet somehow not long enough. But when she felt she’d given- and taken- as much comfort as she could, she broke the kiss but did not pull away, letting her lips linger near his and their breaths mingle as one.

“What in seven hells are you doing, girl?”

The words were harsh but there was no bite in them, and when her eyes fluttered open she saw only softness in his. So she didn’t cower, or run, or answer.  She let her hands fall from his neck and smiled shyly at him before turning and finishing the walk to her chambers, alone. 


	2. Shall We Dance

Sansa was worried about Margaery, worried that Joffrey would mistreat her in the same way she herself had been mistreated. But so far the King had been on his very best behavior, longer than he had been with Sansa.  He had even demanded this ball to celebrate his new and improved betrothal.  Sansa tried not to let it bother her- she didn’t have to marry Joff, after all- but the truth is she wondered what was wrong with her that he could love Margaery so much more than he ever loved her.  It had been a relief to be cast aside, but she’d be a liar if she said it didn’t also hurt.  Only a little, but it did still hurt.

“Would you like more wine, Lady Sansa?” Margaery inquired, taking the seat next to her on the dais as they watched the ball attendees milling about. Even _she_ had noticed that the traitor’s daughter was sitting alone with nary a request to dance.

“How kind of you to ask,” she responded. “But no, I’m fine.”

It was disappointing, if she were being honest with herself- she’d spent the entire day preparing for this event, had imagined for a sennight how knights would line up for the chance to dance with her. Instead she was largely ignored except for the one dance she’d shared with Loras.  She should have known by now that things seldom went the way she wished they would, but perhaps that part of her was just too stubborn to give up.

“Mayhap Loras will ask you to dance,” Margaery suggested, almost as if she could read Sansa’s thoughts.

“Oh, we’ve already danced,” Sansa replied as politely as she was able. “I wouldn’t want to take any more of his time, not with so many ladies waiting.”

It must have been the right answer judging by the way Margaery’s eyes sparked with pride, but the truth was there was something a little too pretty about Ser Loras, a little too _soft_.  His smiles were used far too often to be genuine, his words as practiced and polished as… well, as her own.  And somehow, now, she didn’t appreciate his courtesies like she used to, so when the dance was over and he returned her to her seat she wasn’t truly all that disappointed.

“Hmmm, perhaps one of the others, then,” Margaery continued, eyes surveying the crowd. “Is there anyone in particular you were hoping to dance with?  Some knight you’d like to get to know better?”

There _wasn’t,_ not really.  No, that was wrong- there _was_ one man in particular who occupied her thoughts, though she fought it desperately, but who could blame her after the kiss she’d given him?

When she’d arrived at her room that night she’d collapsed on her bed in a fit of giggles, face pressed to her pillow so no one would hear. Her first kiss!  She’d finally kissed a boy- a _man_ \- and it was not at all what she expected.  She’d fallen asleep with a smile on her lips, still wrapped in the giddiness of the moment, his cloak folded and tucked away under her summer silks with the other cloak he’d given her. 

By morning reality had set in- what if he told Joffrey? What if he told anyone and _they_ told Joffrey?  What if he cast lewd glances in her direction and everyone in court noticed?  What if he thought it meant something?  What if he came to her room and demanded more? 

The potential consequences were seemingly endless and she spent several torturous days ticking through the possibilities. She waited with bated breath for something dire to happen, searched the faces of knights and ladies alike for signs that they _knew_ , all the while expecting Joffrey to suddenly announce both her transgression and her punishment.  And she watched the Hound, too, wanting to know if he saw her any differently, but he hardly looked at her at all, and when he did it was much in the same way as before.

Even when it became apparent that he had not told anyone and there would be no consequences for her foolish actions, she still could not will herself to relax. Her thoughts and emotions swung like a pendulum- one moment her heart would be heavy with fear, the next her head would be swimming from the memory of his hands on her hips.  First she’d be grateful that he hadn’t taken it as an invitation, then she’d be fuming that her affection was apparently so easy to dismiss.  Joffrey would taunt her and she’d be giddy on the inside, knowing that for just a moment his dog had been hers; but then immediately she’d begin chastising herself for being be so forward.  With the _Hound_.  Gods, he wasn’t even a knight! 

Sometimes it seemed she might burst from the riot inside her when there was no one to talk to and nowhere to turn. As much as she wanted to love Margaery like a sister, she knew better than to trust her with such a secret, not as long as she was betrothed to the king.

“No, no one in particular,” she answered, then rose from her seat. “I think I need some air.  Excuse me.”

The balcony immediately off of the ballroom ran the full length of the building and was deep enough that a person standing at the end could almost pretend there was not a ball going on. Which is exactly what Sansa was attempting to do, staring morosely out into the darkened godswood and feeling sorry for herself.

“What are you doing out here, girl?”

Sansa gasped, startled by his raspy voice when she had assumed she was alone. And glancing over her shoulder she could see him, leaning against the wall in the shadows, wineskin in hand.  Typical.

“I just…” She just what?  She couldn’t say she was resting, that would be a lie.  And there was really no use in lying about it anyway, anyone with eyes could see the truth; and he’d always demanded the truth besides.  “No one will dance with me,” she admitted with a sigh of resignation, turning away from him to gaze out into the godswood.

He would approach her now, she knew, would put a hand on her hip or employ some other tactic to gain her attention. And she would have to protest, to insist that he was mistaken, to threaten to scream and reveal his vile intentions for all to see.  Quickly she mapped out a defense to every one of his advances, practicing the proper response, an answer that would make clear she had no interest in him.  She became so involved in creating this conversation in her head that she forgot, for a moment, that it was _only_ in her head.  He had not spoken to her, had not approached her, had not put a hand on her hip… he hadn’t moved a muscle from his place at the wall.

It seemed even the Hound was not interested in a traitor’s daughter.

“You’re not dancing?” She lobbed the question over her shoulder, trying to act indifferent to the conversation though it was truthfully already the best one of the evening.

“I don’t dance.”

“Don’t?” she echoed, this time turning to face him. “Or can’t?”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes for a long time then took a pull on the wineskin, swallowing hard before answering. “I’ve no use for silly prancing.”

“So… you can’t,” she challenged him, slowly walking in his direction and closing the distance between them. “I can teach you.  It’s not very hard.”

“Didn’t I say I’ve no use for it?” He _had_ said that, and had done nothing to make her think he might change his mind, but since the night she’d kissed him she no longer truly feared him, and now she was not going to take no for an answer.  This night was for dancing, and he would give her this whether he willed it or not.

“Do you know where to place your hands?” she prompted. As soon as the words left her lips she realized how they sounded, and since his eyes had widened and his mouth was twitching she assumed he heard it in the same way.  For a moment she worried that he would think she _meant_ to titillate him, meant to tease him like that, and then where would she be?  But then he pushed off the wall and tossed the wineskin as he approached her, taking her right hand with his left one and wrapping an arm gingerly around her waist.

“Like this?” She nodded in response, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest though her face remained expressionless.  Or… _hopefully_ remained expressionless.  “Now what?”

“You have to tell me what you want me to do using only your hands,” she began, then stopped. These were the exact same instructions she’d been given when she was learning to dance back in Winterfell, in these exact words, but she didn’t remember them sounding so… improper.  He must have noticed, judging by the way he raised a brow; she cleared her throat and hurried with the lesson before he could think too much about it.  

“So… if you want me to step away from you, you push with this hand...” she squeezed his left hand; he squeezed back, “…and you step with the same foot in the same direction as the hand that gave the command.”

He gave no indication that he understood or even that he was listening, just looked down at her with that same bored and unreadable expression she’d grown used to, his silver eyes boring into her as if searching inside her, the heat of his hands seeping into her as… what were they talking about? Oh, yes… dancing.

“Let’s try it,” she said, just a little breathless.

He pushed with his left hand just as she’d told him to and she dutifully stepped backwards.

“You forgot to step with me,” she laughed, moving her foot back into place. “Try again.”

Again he pushed with his hand and this time he stepped with her, moving his left foot when she moved her right one, and she smiled not only at his progress but at her own success in teaching him.

“Good,” she told him. “Now, if you want me to step forward, you pull with your other hand.”

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch right before she felt the pressure at her back, and she took a step forward just as she was supposed to.

“You forgot to step with me!” she giggled when their bodies bumped together.

“No, I didn’t,” he rasped down at her, then pressed at her back again, and again she stepped towards him, inadvertently moving even closer till her body was flush with his. And now that she was pressed against him he held her tightly as though she had moved there intentionally.  He was not going to let her go, she knew that; she could thrash and complain all she wanted, he’d still hold her close to him and refuse to release her.  She assumed.  Truth was, she wasn’t even trying to step away.  

“That’s not how the dance goes,” she admonished him, trying for ‘stern’ but achieving only ‘helpless.’

“Might be I’ve got a different dance in mind,” he rasped, his mouth so very close to her own. “Might be I’d like another taste of you.”

Sansa was astounded by his audacity and did her best to show it. The _nerve_ of him to even think such a thing!  He was far too low-born for her, not even a knight, and she was a lady, once betrothed to a king!  It was an outrage that he would even say something like that to her.  And true, she was the one who had kissed him first, but that was just her way of showing him kindness.  And now here he was, requesting more as if she would ever agree to it.  She had to think of some proper way to tell him that another kiss would most certainly _not_ be happening, not now, not _ever_. 

“Might be… I’d tell you no,” she murmured breathlessly.

Oh gods, but she shouldn’t have said anything at all! Her voice was too husky, too thick with desire even to her own ears, and betrayed her thoughts more than any words or glances or actions.  He knew, and she knew that he knew, that she would not tell him no.

And yet he made no move to kiss her, only peered down at her with a smug look on his ruined face, and she realized that he was still waiting for her permission. She couldn’t give it, of course- a proper lady would never just _tell_ a man that he could kiss her, much less a man like him, but she honestly thought she would never have to _._ Couldn’t he hear it in her voice, feel it in her body, remember it from when she had kissed him?  If he did, he was ignoring it, still hesitant to do something she would not welcome.  It was… a little endearing.  But also a little frustrating.  What more did she have to do to get her message across?

“I’d not say no,” she said quickly, as if saying it fast was almost as good as not saying it at all. And this time he didn’t hesitate, only leaned his head towards her to capture her lips with his own. 

His kiss was nothing like the chaste one she’d given him, but somehow it was just as sweet and tender. Following his lead meant relinquishing control and that frightened her somewhat, because she didn’t know what he would do next.  Other than the kiss, though, he hadn’t really done anything- one hand was still at the small of her back, the other held her right hand aloft as if they were still dancing.

The way he was holding her, the hilt of his sword was pressing uncomfortably into her hip bone, and she shifted just a little to ease it out of the way. But he tensed suddenly and held her tighter in place and kissed her even harder, slipped his tongue between her lips, and she opened her mouth for him though it was suddenly so very hard to breathe.  The way he explored her mouth with his own was… different; she couldn’t really say it was unpleasant, even if it was unexpected, and allowed him to taste her as much as she was tasting him. 

All too soon he broke the kiss but didn’t release her, not yet; they continued their little dance with lips barely touching, not moving, not speaking, just... being.

“You should go, little bird,” he rasped softly and pushed her gently away. “Before you’re missed.”

“I… yes.”

It wasn’t the most eloquent response, perhaps, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. Her lips were still stinging from the intensity of his kiss when she turned to walk away from him, head spinning and cheeks flushed and… happy, a little.  He’d called her little bird; he hadn’t called her that since the night of the battle, and hearing it now consoled her in a way that she couldn’t understand.

It was too bright in the ballroom, and far too hot, and was it her imagination or were people staring at her? Definitely her imagination- no one paid her any mind whatsoever, just as usual.  Even Margaery was distracted, dancing with Joffrey while smiling lords and ladies watched on.  Sansa fought back her own smile, certain that if anyone saw it they would _know_ her mirth was not directed at the royal couple but out in the shadows of the balcony.

“Lady Sansa. Would you like to dance?”  It was one of the Kettleblacks- she couldn’t say which one, never could tell them apart and really had no desire to be able to.

“I apologize, ser,” she answered vaguely. “But I’m feeling faint and wish to retire.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t even look up to see how he handled her rejection, just retreated as quickly as she could to the safety of her chambers. If fortune was on her side, Joffrey wouldn’t even notice she took her leave without his permission.  It seemed likely he wouldn’t; _he_ hardly ever noticed her, either.

“You looked lovely tonight,” her handmaiden gushed as she helped her prepare for bed. “Did you dance with many men?”

“Just one,” Sansa answered sullenly. “Or… two.” 

The handmaiden smiled at her, pity plain on her face, but Sansa was already lost in her memories. And just as before, the pendulum had swung fully from the joy of only moments ago, to the shame of the present.

What was she _thinking_ cavorting with a man like that, much less with a man such as _him?_ And after everything he had done to her!  He had never apologized for coming to her room and scaring her, and even if he had she wouldn’t forgive him.  How could she?  He was a beast and had turned craven, everyone said so, and… well, might be they were right, but they also didn’t understand _why_.  Not like she did.

For a moment she thought about it from his perspective, having to face the one thing he feared, then have it known among everyone that he had failed. He’d abandoned the battlefield for all to see, deserted his position, destroyed his reputation… it must have been the lowest point of his entire life and what had he done?  He’d come straight to her.  It was rather touching, the more she thought on it- not the blood or the dagger or the threat on her life, but the very idea that _she_ had been the comfort he needed. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to forgive him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where everyone figures out how weird Sassy's taste in music is.
> 
> Title of chapter, "Shall We Dance" from the musical 'The King and I'


	3. Up on the Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I learned something this week: if staring and stalling and tinkering with your fic has not made it better, then at some point you have to just rip the band-aid off and post the dang thing. I can't look at it anymore.

_Where you thought you were alone. Same time._

Sansa stared down at the note in her hand, rendered in such neat letters she first thought perhaps he had someone else write it for him. That would be foolish, though; even more foolish than leaving her the note in the first place. 

_Where you thought you were alone. Same time._

Who was it who always sent notes? Bethany Bracken and Ser Terrence Toyne, perhaps?  She couldn’t remember the stories anymore, not like she used to, not like when she was a child, but the faint memory of them now was more than enough to reignite the fancy of the girl she once was.

_Where you thought you were alone. Same time._

It was very late the night she’d met Ser Dontos in the godswood, but she could not recall exactly what time it had been. It likely didn’t matter, though; not to her.  She waited until she was certain she wouldn’t see anyone in the halls then quietly slipped out of her room, heading towards the stairs and the man she was certain had left the note.  

There really shouldn’t be any question as to what it was he was hoping for from her, nor should there be any question as to whether or not it was a good idea to meet him, yet here she was, climbing the steps to see him only because he’d asked her to. She didn’t even truly know him, this man who had recently become her… what, exactly?  Her ally?  Her friend?  Her lover?  No, not her lover.  Wasn’t there love between lovers?  She was fairly certain she didn’t love the Hound, and even more certain he wasn’t capable of loving _anyone_ much less a chirping little bird like herself. 

But hadn’t she chosen her prettiest dress to meet him, the one that plunged in the front just enough to titillate without being grossly inappropriate? Hadn’t she dabbed lavender oil behind her ears and through her hair, had powdered her face and bosom?  Wasn’t her heart pounding at a full gallop at just the thought of seeing him?  It was and she knew it, knew that it had nothing to do with the steps she was ascending and everything to do with what she was ascending towards.  Her lady mother would be horrified.  Except her lady mother was the one who told her to show love wherever she could. 

That wasn’t true, though, was it? The words she had taken to heart were the words uttered in her dream, and if she were being honest with herself she would admit that her mother would _never_ have given her that advice. Lady Catelyn Stark might have genuine respect for every man, woman, and child she met, but that respect went only as long as they never stepped outside their roles, and what was in a man’s heart mattered not at all when it came to a man’s title and claim.  Sansa was intended for some high lord; Sansa’s _affection_ was intended for some high lord.  Her mother would never have told her otherwise, so why had she dreamt it that way?

She was alone on the roof, staring down at the city below while the wind whipped at her skirts, just as she had the night before Stannis attacked. When she _thought_ she’d been alone; she’d been mistaken then, just as she was now, and he came to join her where she stood.

“It’s so beautiful,” she sighed without looking at him.

“Only you could look down at the bowels of King’s Landing and think it’s beautiful.” His voice was low and mocking, but the reproach didn’t bother her.

“That may be so,” she conceded. “But it _is_ beautiful.”

“Yes, it is beautiful,” he agreed reluctantly, then turned to look her over completely while she kept her eyes on the city below and pretended not to notice. Moments later his gaze went skyward as he lifted a wineskin to his mouth, taking a long swallow before offering the skin to her though it seemed he didn’t truly think she would take it.  She hesitated only a moment before she accepted it, putting her lips where his had just been.  The wine tasted sour and strong, but the warmth was instant and welcome; she sighed and returned the skin.

“You’re cold.”

She was. She’d intentionally not worn a cloak so that he could see her dress- a fine idea at the time, but one that now seemed entirely foolish.  It was near freezing up on the roof, and windy besides.

“A little,” she admitted.

“I’d give you my cloak, but you stole the last one I let you use.”

He was teasing her; he’d teased her before, of course, usually with more than just a hint of malice to it, but there was only warmth in the words he spoke now, and something… sweet.

“You may have it back any time you wish, it’s in my room,” she smiled out into the night. “The other one, too.”

The confession took her by surprise- she hadn’t meant to tell him that, still wasn’t sure why she kept that filthy thing after all this time. Glancing up at him, he seemed just as surprised as she was, only _his_ thoughts was more guarded and harder to ascertain.  He’d been making that face a lot lately with her, the one where he wasn’t quite sure of what she meant or what she wanted; she couldn’t say she minded it very much.

The silence unsettled her in a way she didn’t want to think on so she timidly reached for the wine, taking another small sip to calm her nerves and distract her thoughts before she handed it back. This time when he took the wineskin he took her hand, too, then stepped backwards and eased onto a crate, shrinking before her startled eyes.  A shift and a pull and she was sitting stiffly on his knee, perched like a little bird with his cloak around the both of them, arm draped loosely around her waist and hand resting lightly on her hip.  She could hardly believe she would allow such a thing; judging by his honey-slow movements and the expression on his face, he couldn’t quite believe it, either.

It was wrong, she knew, but it didn’t _feel_ wrong- he was so warm, and she was so tired, and it had been _so long_ since she’d been in anyone’s arms.  The last person who held her like that had been her father, and it was just as warm and loving with the Hound as it had been with Eddard Stark.  It wasn’t improper, or inappropriate, or licentious, it was just… comfort.  It was queer to realize that even though they had kissed twice now they had never embraced.  True, he had held her close to him when they danced but that wasn’t the same, wasn’t anything like how he held her now.  And if this was all he wanted of her… well, she could give him that, would give it to him gladly. 

When he handed her the wineskin again she took it without hesitation, steeling herself for a long pull so that he wouldn’t tease her about wincing at the taste. Handing it back, she thought she could see a smirk from the corner of her eye, but he thankfully said nothing. 

It was the wine, she thought, that made her bold enough to reach for him, to run her fingers lightly over the hand that clutched the wineskin. Such an enormous hand- so very rough and very scarred and very much like him.  Slivers of silver decorated his knuckles and she traced every one of them, down over the coarse skin to his horrifically short nails, back up to the firm flesh around his thumb. A spray of dark hair dusted the back of his hand and disappeared under the sleeve of his tunic, and he had a vein in his wrist, thick and throbbing, that wiggled from her touch like a fat worm. 

“Does that hurt?”

“Why would it hurt?”

“I don’t know. Mine doesn’t do that.  See?”

She held up her own wrist for his inspection, thinking perhaps he would trace the lines like she had done to him, but he only glanced at her hand and nodded his head. He seemed… hesitant; soft, almost.  She couldn’t recall ever seeing him as such and wondered if it was _her_ that brought it out of him, her and this recent _whatever_ they had been doing.  Was that the point of her dream- to soothe the man and bring the dog to heel?  If so, then… why?

“Do you think there’s magic in dreams?” she asked him, returning her untouched hand to his.

“What do you mean?”

“Just… do you think there are messages in our dreams?”

He shook his head slowly at her as if bored with the conversation already. “The only thing in your dreams is what’s in your head already.”

“I dreamt of my mother. She… told me something.” 

“It wasn’t truly your mother,” he rasped, almost dismissive. “Anything she said in your dream was just something you wanted her to say, nothing more.”

Sansa frowned at him; it made a disappointing amount of sense, in a completely unromantic and non-magical way. And he was likely right; even _she_ had to admit the truth of it.  But why would she want her mother to say those things?  Why would she dream it that way?   

She reached for the wine again and lifted it to her mouth, noting for the first time just how warm it was; warm from _him_ \- it was _his_ heat in the wine, a thought that made the drink oddly intimate. 

Perhaps it was because she was tired, or because she was distracted, or because the wine was already playing tricks with her judgment, but at any rate she pulled the wineskin away from her mouth too quickly and spilled before she could help it.

“Oh…”

Looking down she saw the droplet of wine, blood red against the white of her skin and drifting towards the neckline of her dress. Quickly she reached to dab it away before it could stain the fabric, but his hand caught her wrist mid-flight, and when she looked to him she saw only wide-eyed hunger.  Her galloping heart stopped, uncertain of his intentions, and for several moments neither of them did or said anything.  Then he slowly lowered her hand into her lap but did not release it, dropped his mouth to the offending droplet, and sipped it from her skin.

Her voice caught in her throat, trapped against her in the same manner her hand was, heat blooming across her chest from where his lips landed and she whimpered in protest. Or… that might not have been in protest- even to her own ears it sounded more like a happy moan, breathless and giddy as she felt, and he responded by grabbing her hip and pulling her against him. 

Surely the drop was well and truly gone but he continued to drink from her, one arm still pinned between them, her other still clutching the wineskin as he pressed soft wet kisses to the swell of her breasts. Her chest was _heaving,_ almost absurdly, but he didn’t seem to mind, and tugged at her hips to move her closer.  It was wildly inappropriate, probably, and she should stop him, probably, but she was too distracted by lips and tongue and breath, by a scuff of stubble and a scrape of scars.

 _It’s the wine, the wine,_ her blood was singing, for what else could it be?  It was the wine that lit a fire in her belly, the wine that closed her eyes, the wine that tilted her head and showed her neck to him.  And it was the wine, she knew, that made her like it.

“I can see your heart beating,” he murmured against her and placed a kiss there, then another, and another as he made his way up over her collar bones, the hollow of her neck, the line of her jaw, and right behind her ear where he simply buried his face into her hair and pulled her hips even closer.

Gods, but it was so hot in his arms. She could feel sweat forming all over her body and the tiniest little hum of fear.  Because she _was_ afraid- of him, of her, of what she was doing and what she was thinking, of what could happen if she didn’t say stop, of what might happen even if she _did_ say stop.  And she should be _more_ afraid, she knew, but she wasn’t, because even above her fear there were those _other_ feelings, the ones of warmth and safety. 

Although… there was _something_ that made this a bit uncomfortable, and she twisted and maneuvered in a subtle attempt to get away, much like she had when they were dancing.  And just like then, he grabbed quickly at her hips to hold her firmly in place.

“Stop wiggling.”

“I apologize, but… your sword.”

“What?” he said flatly, more statement than question.

“The hilt… of your sword… it’s uncomfortable.” He seemed genuinely baffled by her complaint, simple though it may be, but after a few moments of stunned silence he erupted in a hiss of laughter.  “Why is that funny?”

She was more than a little confused and he knew it but kept laughing at her anyway, and every time he’d look down at her affronted expression he’d start laughing even harder. It wasn’t until she tried to withdraw from him that he finally sobered, holding her in place to prevent her retreat.  He wasn’t laughing anymore, but he was still clearly amused.

“Look at you,” he rasped, hand caressing her cheek before coming to rest right below her ear, eyes drifting downward. “So pretty and pink and perfect.  You’ve no idea the thoughts you put in a man’s head, I’ll wager.”

She _didn’t_ have any idea the thoughts she put in a man’s head; her own thoughts were on the hand he had at her neck, the eyes still trained on her chest, and that was really all the thinking she had room for.

“Innocent as a babe, you are.” He wasn’t smiling anymore- all trace of amusement had gone from his eyes and yielded to this pensive but searching expression.  “Why did you come here tonight?”

“You asked me to,” she answered at once, then faltered. Had she been wrong?  “Didn’t you?”

“You came because I asked?” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at her looking very much like his namesake until she nodded.  “Why?”

_Why?_

“I… I’m not certain.” And that was the truth; she’d thought on it constantly and still hadn’t arrived at an answer, even now.  She couldn’t give him the kinds of things a man like him desired, didn’t even _want_ to give him those things.  She shouldn’t even be giving him what she’d given him so far; she _knew_ that.

He knew it too, she supposed, because he abruptly pushed her from his lap and stood.

“I’ll walk you to your room, girl.”

_Girl._

The sudden chill in both the air and his tone made her shudder and when she looked to him in confusion she saw none of the tenderness that had been there moments before.

“Go on, now.”

She did, though she was not pleased about it. She descended the steps and headed towards her room, him keeping pace behind her just as always, as if things _between_ them were just as always.  Why would he do that, she wondered.  Was it for appearances, in case anyone saw them?  Or was it for her, in case she got ideas that this was something other than… whatever it was.  She wasn’t really sure how she should feel if it were the latter, only that she felt… a little defeated.  They reached her chamber before she could ponder it fully, but as she opened the door he stopped her.

“Little bird.”

The words were so gently spoken that they startled her and she found herself gaping at him like a half-wit though he would not meet her eyes.

“You need to be more careful. The things you say, the things you do… the wrong sort of man would take advantage.  Do you understand?”

She couldn’t speak; her breath was caught in her throat so she simply nodded her assent before he turned to leave. Because she _did_ understand, a little.  What she _couldn’t_ understand, though, was why his expression was one of measured indifference, or why his retreat had an air of finality to it, as if something had been decided without her knowledge.  What was he doing?  What was he saying?

“Are you the wrong sort of man?” she called out to him, uncertain if he heard until he came to a stop. He didn’t turn, only looked at her over his shoulder, showing her the ruined side of his face when he answered-

“Yes.”

-and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title- Up on the Roof by the Drifters
> 
> Personal update: sold the house, got through inspections, it's a done deal. *sigh of relief* The bad news is, we have no house to move TO. There is almost nothing for sale in our newest zipcode, so that's a fun new thing to worry about.


	4. Heartache Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this since November and every single day for the past month, I'm not even kidding. This is (unfortunately) as good as it gets.

 

The Hound was avoiding her. She was certain that’s what he was doing, that it wasn’t her imagination.  She’d sit and listen to the daily proceedings, nod or shake her head at the appropriate times… and watch the Hound, which he didn’t seem to notice.  The more he ignored her, the more she missed him, which was absurd- she should feel grateful he left her alone and not so terribly lonely, but it must have been that brush of a connection that made the loneliness now so much more unbearable.

Which was probably why she accepted Margaery’s invitation to go to the training yard. It wasn’t something she ordinarily found any interest in, truthfully, yet there she was, surrounded by the ladies of the court while working on her embroidery, thoughts elsewhere.  In fact, she spent most of the time with her head bowed, concentrating on her stitches, only occasionally looking up to see what she was missing.  And it seemed that every single time it was Ser Loras sparring with someone, spinning this way and that way, thrusting and parrying and otherwise drawing it out for the sake of showmanship.  Margaery’s entourage would cheer and coo appreciatively while Sansa’s eyes wandered around the yard, unimpressed. 

_Where is the Hound?_

Sansa was in the midst of rethreading her needle when the stands erupted in raucous cheers, ladies standing to applaud Ser Loras who was bowing dramatically in their direction. _How crass._ She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the spectacle, then immediately chastised herself for her discourteous thoughts.

And still the Hound did not appear. So when Sansa felt like she had more sun than her fair skin could tolerate she finally retreated to the cool comfort of her chambers, uncertain why she felt so unfulfilled by the outing.  It hadn’t been much different than any _other_ time she’d gone to the training yard.  And she had nearly finished her embroidering.  What more could she have hoped for? 

She dreamt that night of Maidenpool; she’d never _been_ to Maidenpool but in her dream there had been no doubt of the location, because it looked just like the picture Old Nan had shown her in one of her books.  The sky had been bluer than blue, the water clearer than possible, the trees and grass so green they might have been paintings.  Her sisters were lovely, stunning beauties draped in varying hues of silk as they splashed in the pool, their laughter warm as sunshine filling her ears. 

Sansa knew this story and knew it well. It was a relief, knowing for once what would happen next, so she slipped deeper into the sparkling water without hesitation, the diaphanous gown melting like spun sugar and leaving her bare.  She glanced over to that place in the painting where Florian should be, peeking through the reeds, but instead of the fool she saw only the Hound, dressed in motley, larger and darker and scarier than the Florian in the songs.

Jonquil never noticed Florian in the stories- not yet, at least- but she could not look away, not now that his eyes were finally on her. The longer she looked the darker her view grew- the golden sun dimmed taking the warmth with it, then everything blurred, laughter and splashing slipping away.  She squeezed her eyes closed for only a moment and willed them to refocus, but when she opened them again the scene had changed- the motley was gone, the water gone, the dream gone, but the Hound... he was still there, kneeling at her side and stooped to eye-level.

“You don’t seem very surprised to see me.”

“I dreamt of Florian and Jonquil...” she began dumbly, realizing belatedly just how silly she sounded.

“Always with the stories and songs. Lies, all of them.”

“You were Florian,” she countered, but he only snorted.

“I’m no knight, and no fool either.” His eyes wandered lazily down the length of her blanketed form then meandered back up again.  “Or maybe I am.  You should bar your door, little bird.”

Sansa pushed up and looked past him to her door, its bar now securely in place, then back to his steel gray eyes. Sometimes he was a very odd man- it was just like him to lecture her for her carelessness right after he’d taken advantage of the very thing he was lecturing her on.  She wanted to protest, to tell him that no one ever disturbed her at night, except... well, except that here he was, disturbing her, not even for the first time, either.  And she should be frightened that he invaded the privacy of her room- again- but she truly wasn’t scared at all.  Nervous, yes... but not scared, not really. 

But why was she nervous?

“You’re staring,” he stated flatly. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Didn’t realize you noticed,” she retorted, eyes narrowed in challenge.

He raised his good brow at her, surprised at her words or her tone or perhaps both, but he quickly countered with his own attack.

“What were you doing at the training yard?”

_The training yard?_

“I was… I had nothing else… and Margaery was…” She couldn’t understand what he could possibly object to, why he would come here in the dark of night to ask her such a thing, but before she could form an explanation she realized she didn’t _care_ if he objected.  Or _shouldn’t_ care.  “I can go anywhere I _want_ to.”

“Yes, but why did you _want_ to go to the training yard?”

“Margaery asked. And everyone _else_ was going...”

“See anything you liked?”

“I wasn’t really watching.” She shook her head at the memory, but when she looked up at him he was still just watching her, waiting for an answer.  “I mostly just saw Ser Loras.  He was very… active today.”

“You enjoy watching the Tyrell flower, do you?”

“Ser Loras? Well, he’s…”

“Comely?” he guessed.

“No,” she mumbled, confused, because while Ser Loras was indeed comely that was not what she was going to say.

“Handsome?”

“No.”

“Gallant?”

“Small,” she concluded at last. It was the best she could do, honestly, and what she had been thinking, but when she looked up at the Hound again he was only glaring at her, silver eyes piercing her like a lance.  It unsettled her to see him that way, and she scrambled out of bed and reached for the flint, suddenly desperate to move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she told him, striking the flint once, twice, lighting one candle and moving swiftly to the next.

“You want me to leave?”

 _Did_ she?  “Yes,” she nodded without looking at him, lighting the second candle. 

The last candle was on the table by her bed, near where he still knelt, but he rose and stepped aside when she squeezed past him. He was so very close, towering over her, and the intimacy of their position made her fumble for the candle, knocking it over when she reached for it.  

“Then why are you lighting candles?”

Sansa set the candle upright. Struck the flint.  Lit the wick.  Why _was_ she lighting candles?  She didn’t know.  But considering all of the other things she’d done lately it hardly seemed like something to ponder.  A bigger question was why he was here, why he moved to stand even closer, and why she allowed it.

A heavy hand settled across her stomach, nothing but the shift separating their skin and it was wrong, probably, definitely, yet she couldn’t make herself stop him, not with the way her head was spinning and her pulse pounding. It didn’t _feel_ wrong.  It only felt comfortable, warm, and she placed a hand over his and leaned against him.  Not wrong.  It was just his _hand_ on her, almost like dancing, and dancing was perfectly proper.  Everyone knew that.

“Why were you there?” he asked again, softer this time, fingers curling and flexing against her.

“I wanted to see you. But you never…”

“You were there for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” She didn’t even try to keep the accusation out of her tone, because it was the truth and he always wanted the truth.  Maybe he would appreciate her honesty, maybe he would like it, but he only laughed at her instead, a soft low rumble that tickled her hair.

“I like you this way.”

“What way is that?” she asked nervously, unsure of his meaning, but then he turned her to face him, lifted her chin with just one crooked finger and said-

“Brave.”

And oh, had anyone ever called her _brave?_ Arya was brave.  Robb and Bran and Rickon were brave.  Sansa was elegant and courteous and pretty, everyone said so, and sometimes even beautiful, which she had thought was the greatest compliment she could ever have received.  Until now.  It was better than being called beautiful because he believed it, and it made _her_ believe it as well, so when he bent to kiss her she happily lifted her mouth to his.

He tasted of mint instead of wine, and she wondered with amusement if that was for her, if he’d been hoping to kiss her again and had prepared for the possibility. She rather thought maybe he had, and instead of being affronted she felt… somewhat flattered.  The very idea that he would sneak into her room, hoping for a kiss... it was sweet, really, and not at all something she would have expected of him.  None of this was anything she had ever expected of either of them, and she definitely never expected to like it as much as she did- the feel of his arms around her, the drag of his tongue across hers, his scarred lips against her smooth ones, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as if he were overwhelmed by her... she liked it.  She liked _all_ of it.  Septa Mordane would be horror-struck.

“Did you know,” he rumbled against her lips. “You’re the only girl who’s ever allowed me a kiss?” 

“Truly?” She couldn’t help the way her heart fluttered at his confession- a man as old as him and his kisses all belonged to her?  She liked that very much.  “My kisses are yours alone as well.”

It sounded very romantic when she said it that way, she thought, almost like a love story, one that must be kept hidden. It reminded her of Bethany Bracken and Terrence Toyne- the king’s mistress and a member of the Kingsguard, miserable in their respective roles, leaning on each other in secret, seeking each other out when no one was looking... and dying horribly when their liaison was discovered.  Maybe _not_ like Bethany Bracken and Terrence Toyne. 

“Mine alone,” he echoed, then leaned away to search her eyes. _“All_ mine?”

It was _such_ an odd question- hadn’t she just _said_ they were all his?- but she nodded anyway, and he huffed once as if surprised by her answer.  Such an odd man. 

“Little bird,” he rasped, almost relieved, and kissed her again.

There was a time not long ago when his voice called to mind cold, ragged stone; now it caressed her skin like warm sand. Had _she_ done that, coaxed that voice from him?  Was that tone for her alone just like his kisses were?  Did he pay other girls compliments, or just the ones who allowed a kiss? 

No, it was her and her alone, she was certain.  Or _wanted_ to be certain.

His hands had started to wander, drawing her closer with every broad stroke across her back, her shoulders, down her hips and up again, lifting her shift as he went and _that_ was when she knew what he meant, what question he was asking.  And she couldn’t.  She _couldn’t._ Didn’t he know that?  Did he really have to make her say it? 

_No, no, the answer is no._

“Sansa… I need…”

He didn’t finish; he didn’t have to. She knew exactly what he was referring to, and judging by the urgency in his voice and in his touch she wondered if maybe he _did_ need it.  It wasn’t like before- this wasn’t warm and tender but fierce and hungry, her body pressed flush against him, shoulder to toe, his mouth at her neck.  And it was too much, too much!  She did not _want_ him here, and she definitely did not want what he was asking for.  She wanted him to leave, immediately, needed him to know she would not give in, that she _would_ say no, but even though her mind was in a panic her mouth could not form the word.  

“My lord?” she started, hands tapping him lightly on each shoulder while he sucked and nipped at her neck.

“Not a lord.”

Sansa groaned- what a time to be pedantic- then gasped when he pressed her closer. “I... you _can’t.”_

“I can if you _let_ me.”

“Sandor...” she tried again, his name so unfamiliar on her tongue she only played with the word till she remembered what it was she was trying to say. “I… you know that would be… unwise.”

“It would be wise. Very very wise.”

“We’d never be safe,” she tried again, her hands drifting into his hair and pulling. “I’d have to leave.  You’d have to take me out of here.”

It must have been the right thing to say because he stopped at once, and she thanked the old gods and the new that she had somehow made him see reason. But then he pushed her away and looked her over, suspicion in his eyes where desire had burned before. 

“Is that what you’re after?”

“What?”  

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s the only currency you have.  The only coin I want.  And you knew exactly how to use it.  Didn’t you?”

“I… don’t understand.” She _didn’t_ understand, but he gave an exaggerated snort at her comment.

“Look at you, baffled and innocent. You just keep playing coy now, little bird, but don’t you worry- I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“I haven’t offered you anything.”

“Haven’t you?”

A shiver ran down her spine as she realized the meaning of his words- his very unkind and completely unfair and totally untrue words. He thought this was some sort of... _exchange?_

“You… are you trying to call me a whore?”

“A whore,” he sneered, pure venom. “Never had to pay for _your_ services.  My lady.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Why else would I be here?”

 _I thought you missed me. I thought you liked me._  

“You’re mad,” she snapped.

“Am I? I don’t think so.”

He was so angry, so much like he _used_ to be, but she was angry, too, not at the accusation of her motives but at the implication he was only there for one specific purpose. 

“You sneak into my room while I’m sleeping, beg me to... accuse me of...   Don’t tell me the only reason you’re here is because I’m a cheap alternative to a whore.”  She was shaking, throat squeezed painfully from fighting her tears because he was so very wrong about her and she had been so very wrong about him.  “You _are_ a fool.  We both are.  And to think I missed you.”

Her words must have reached him, even through his defenses, because his eyes showed a flicker of uncertainty when he reached for her.

“No,” she hissed, the word not so hard to say after all.

She turned her back on him to snuff the candles and waited for him to leave. This time she was not sorry to see him go.  This time she was glad he left, it was relief she was feeling and nothing more. 

And this time she barred the damn door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if anyone reads this and wonders who the new girl is... Hi, I'm Sassy, nice to meet you. I don't usually stay away this long.  
> :-)


	5. Miss You

It had been remarkably easy to slip back into complete isolation- on the rare occasion she and the Hound were in the same vicinity they treated each other with all the warmth of two complete strangers, only colder. And though she was alone she was never lonely, not like before, and after a while she decided she preferred the solitude.  She didn’t need his company.  She didn’t miss him _at all._

And then Margaery got involved.

“Come to my chambers tonight, we’re to play a game.”

Her eyes had sparkled even more than usual when she’d cornered Sansa with her request earlier in the day, and even though she was suspicious Sansa had still agreed, if only because she had no choice. Margaery approached _everything_ like it was a game to play so perhaps her suspicions were for naught.

Supper over, the sun long gone down, and the normal time to be preparing for bed, Sansa dismissed her maid and journeyed, alone, to the future queen’s chambers. Margaery opened the door herself, then wordlessly invited her in with little more than a smirk. 

Meredyth Crane was there, lounging sullenly on a couch and looking very apprehensive, almost... scared... and Sansa was once again on her guard. Megga was there, too, and launched herself into Sansa’s arms with a delighted squeal.

“Do you know what we’re doing?” she asked, a breathy giggle against her ear.

“A game?”

“More like a trial,” Merry complained.

Sansa sucked in a gasp then looked over at Margaery, hoping for reassurance, but the young woman just rolled her eyes.

“Get some wine, Sansa. You’re going to need it.” 

She did not get wine, only took a seat on the couch opposite Merry, Megga landing next to her with an exaggerated flounce just as a knock sounded at the door.

“I trust you can all remember to smile and be gracious,” Margaery prompted, pleasant but firm.

None of them answered. Megga smiled brightly, Merry looked sourly at Sansa.  Margaery sighed and opened the door.  The first one to enter was Joffrey, and that was already a portent of dark news; then Horas and Hobber (or Hobber then Horas, it mattered little) and finally the Hound, ducking through the entry and seeming just as bored and uninterested as always.   Gods, what was happening?

Megga’s eyes went wide; Merry seemed horror-struck. Sansa kept her expression as neutral as she could, even as Margaery smiled and welcomed her king and his chosen guests to her chambers, inviting them to partake of the refreshments she’d laid out. Which they did, each grabbing some wine or a sweet then taking a seat around a low table while the ladies waited in heavy silence.  At long last Joffrey removed his elaborate dagger and placed it, still sheathed, upon the table.

“Margaery- tell us what to do.”

“It’s simple, really. One of the ladies spins the dagger and when it stops spinning she will kiss whoever it points to.  And then that person will spin and the game continues from there.”

Merry rose and went to pour herself a very generous serving of wine. Sansa couldn’t blame her.  She knew this game- Theon had told her about it, offered to teach it to her proper, and she had politely declined because ladies didn’t do such things.  Except apparently they most certainly _did._

“Youngest goes first,” Margaery announced; all eyes went to Sansa.

“Me?” she squeaked. She had thought perhaps Megga was younger but the girl was not protesting, so Sansa reluctantly reached for the dagger.  Bile crept up her throat.  Her stomach churned.  Within moments she would be joining lips with one of these... men.  She half-considered launching herself out the window but the thought that Joffrey would actually _prefer_ her dead kept her feet planted.  He would not see her disgust in this, no matter what.  She spun. 

When the dagger finally came to rest pointing at Margaery, Sansa let out a relieved giggle though she knew she’d likely have to spin again. But then Margaery approached her, brows raised mischievously, and before she could understand what she meant to do the future Queen leaned in and pressed a firm kiss to her lips. 

She giggled again when Margaery moved away, too embarrassed to look at the others in the room.

“New rule,” Joffrey barked out. “Ladies don’t kiss ladies, and men don’t kiss men.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Margaery demurred. Oh gods, she’d never met anyone like Margaery before.  She’d just kissed someone she couldn’t possibly have wanted to kiss and she’d done it graciously.  The young woman was as confident as Cersei, and beautiful and playful, too, and while Sansa definitely didn’t want to kiss her again, she truly hoped they could be friends.

It was Margaery’s turn so she set the dagger to spinning and all watched with bated breath until it came to a stop, pointing without question in the direction of the Hound who reacted not at all. Margaery immediately and obediently kissed him while Sansa looked away.

Joffrey was horrified.

“New rule!” he brayed, a bit squeaky. “Margaery isn’t playing.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Margaery sighed and winked at her cousins.

Sansa’s body was shaking from her giggles- honestly, had he not thought this through completely?- but luckily their king was distracted when the Hound reached for the dagger. The first time it stopped it pointed at Joffrey; the _second_ time it stopped it pointed at Joffrey. 

The third time it pointed directly at Sansa.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the whoops and jeers and prodding from the others. Never in her life did she want something less than to... actually, there were plenty of things in her tragic life that she wanted less than this.  It was only a _kiss_ for heavens’ sake.  She had been through far worse things and perhaps many worse were still to come, and here she was balking at a _kiss?_

Besides- if _Margaery_ could handle it graciously, surely Sansa could do the same.

She kept her head high when she moved in front of him, unwilling to look _at_ him, not wanting to know what she might see in his eyes, what he might see in hers.  He was almost at a height with her, even seated, so she barely had to lean in, hands balled into tight fists at her side as she brushed his lips with her own.  A much gentler kiss than Margaery’s, no doubt, and she found herself wondering which he preferred.

The deed now done, Sansa slunk back to her seat, sulking in silence till she realized everyone was looking at her.

“You have to spin the dagger.”

So she did, quickly set it in motion and held her breath, unsure of what outcome to pray for. It spun wildly off of the table and onto the ground, stopping with the tip pointing towards Merry who heaved her eyes skyward.

“Merry should have to spin now,” Sansa argued, but Margaery shook her head.

“No, Sansa. It’s still your turn.”

This time when she spun it pointed at the Hound. Of course it did; the gods were obviously conspiring to humiliate her.  Although she supposed in some way it was better than the other options.

She tried to be as composed and gracious the second time as she was the first, as poised and proper as Margaery had been. But standing in front of the Hound- _again_ \- her resolve crumbled and she had to pause and steel herself.  Megga laughed nervously; one of the Redwynes whistled.  And still she just stood there, preparing for the worst, swallowing hard and taking deep, shallow breaths.

“You’re such a child,” Joffrey hissed, happy for the chance to insult her in this very personal way. “I’ll wager you don’t even know _how_ to kiss.”

They _all_ laughed then- some weakly, some loudly, but none as loud as the Hound and oh, that was _so mean._ The cruel laughter, the pitying looks, her own humiliation... it was too much.  She closed her eyes to it, blocking it out for just a moment, but a hand grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her downwards and before she could utter a protest she was in the Hound’s lap, his lips pressed hard against hers, warm and familiar... and unwelcome!  The insult of his kiss against her wishes was worse than the kiss alone and she twisted in his grasp even as he held her tighter, Joffrey laughing and the Redwyne’s cheering.  She would not yield to him.  She wouldn’t. 

Although... he never tried to deepen the kiss; she supposed she was grateful for that. And it wasn’t _truly_ terrible, not as much as her squirming may have indicated.  Just when she thought maybe the better choice was to relax a little, he pushed her roughly out of his lap and she stumbled away, red-faced and panting. 

“I think she liked it, dog,” Joffrey crowed, and if ever she wished to plunge a dagger into his heart now was her opportunity. She’d happily suffer a quick death for the chance to deal Joffrey his own.  She almost did it, too, even reached a shaking hand for the knife, but the Hound swatted her away and set the dagger spinning.

_Not me not me not me please gods not me._

But the gods failed her. Again.

“Three times, now,” Margaery sang. “Do you know what that means?”

Sansa blanched. “What does that mean?”

“More than kissing.”

 _More?_ Fury bubbled up and hissed out of her.

_“Margaery!”_

“Well, don’t blame _me_ , Sansa, I didn’t make up the rules.”

Sansa had a sneaking suspicion that Margaery had definitely made up that rule.

“I’m not playing anymore.”

“You’re playing,” Joffrey snapped, a little too eager, then turned to Margaery. “What are they supposed to do?”

“It’s nothing _terrible,”_ Margaery drawled lightly, as if the word itself were being silly.  “They just have to go into a closet together.

“A _closet?”_ Sansa lamented, then flopped sideways on the couch.  “Just kill me now and be done with it.”

“Well, now you’ve insulted my dog. Should probably have to... do even more, right?  Maybe take all her clothes off?”

Margaery looked uncomfortable for the first time that evening but quickly schooled her emotions and gave Joffrey a tight smile. “No, Your Grace. _Just_ the closet.” 

And so the entourage went in search of a closet despite Sansa’s protests, Megga and Merry clinging to each of her arms and whispering encouragement. How very unfair it was that after sneaking into her room, insulting her to her face, laughing at her, assaulting her... she still had to give him this.  All for the King’s amusement. 

“Out,” Joffrey ordered when Margaery lead them to a large and brightly lit room, and servants scattered like roaches till the group was alone.

“In,” he told Sansa and pointed at an open closet. It wasn’t a very big closet, and it was already crowded with brooms and buckets and whatever vermin lurked in dark corners, perhaps even a few cobwebs to add to Sansa’s misery. 

“For how long?”

“However long I like,” Joffrey answered, wormy lips twisting, eyes narrowed in challenge.

 _He_ wants _me to protest. He wants me to suffer._ Of course he did- she knew his nature, after all.  And it wasn’t as if she had a choice in this- she’d be in that closet one way or another, she could be dragged in screaming or she could lead the way.

She led the way.

Or _tried_ to lead the way.  Within seconds she was wrapped in iron arms, lifted and carried to the damnable closet while the others laughed and gasped, the door slamming shut and plunging them into darkness.  Not complete darkness, though- light pressed through and under the door and made shadows on the wall- but the light didn’t hide the fact that she was stuck, trapped as sure as a bird in a cage, the Hound her jailer.  If he thought for _one moment_ she would allow him to take liberties with her, well, he would have to think again.  She absolutely would _not_ be...

“I miss you,” he growled in her ear, and even though there was heat in those words there was tenderness, too. Never would she have thought he was capable of saying such a thing, of _meaning_ such a thing, and felt her heart skip curiously and take her momentarily off guard. 

Not for long, though.

“What exactly is it you miss?” she sniffed, but he only laughed at her question and pulled her closer.

“I know what you’re thinking. You think I want your cunt.  And I do, I won’t deny it.  But that’s not what I miss.”

His hold on her had slackened but she didn’t try to move away, a hand firmly on her hip, mouth at her ear, every heavy breath he took pressed him harder against her back, his warmth seeping into her body and breaching her resistance.

“I’ve no honeyed words for you, little bird, you know that. And I’m not the kind of man who apologizes.  But I miss you- your senseless chirping and your empty courtesies and your silly affectations... _all_ of you.” 

Well. Definitely no honey in _those_ words- more like molasses, rolled in nails- but they were somehow far more fitting.  Anything else wouldn’t have rung true.  She couldn’t help but smile, to melt into him when he turned her around, to lift her chin when he cautiously bent his mouth down to...

“You kissed Margaery!”

“So did you,” he retorted, but his startled look changed quickly to a smirk. “Did you like it?”

The question confused her. “No.  There wasn’t really anything to like, it was just lips pressed together.”

“Same here. Nothing to like.”

She wondered if he meant it. She thought he probably did.

“We’ve only ever kissed each other. And now we’ve both kissed Margaery.”  She laughed at the idea and he laughed with her- a breathy little snort, really, but so easy and guileless it made her pause.  “I like it when you smile.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re… different.  Happy.  I never see you that way.  And… I missed you, too.”

“What exactly is it you missed?”

“Stop.”

Voices and laughter and light drifted into the tiny closet, so very little space between them; enormous hands slid up and down each arm but he made no move to kiss her. She had thought he would, was a little surprised he hadn’t.  Perhaps a little disappointed as well.  

“Are you still angry with me?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, teasing. “Maybe if you hadn’t had so much with that game...”

“Just a show for the boy. He loves a show.”

“He’s _awful.”_

“Aye, he is. But he’s no fool in this- he picked the most beautiful ladies in the Keep, then surrounded himself with the ugliest fuckers he could find.”

“You think they’re beautiful?” she asked before she could stop herself; both of his eyebrows shot up in surprise, plain as day even in the dark, followed by obvious amusement.

When he bent to kiss her this time she didn’t stop him. It was... a little thrilling, knowing there were people on the other side of that door, people who hoped he was taking advantage of her, people who could not possibly guess at the truth.  They likely imagined her pouting, perhaps fighting him off; they could never imagine her willingly in his arms and hoping for just a few more moments that way.  Which she denied herself, reluctantly pulled herself from him, the risk of being discovered outweighing desire.

“I don’t want to play that stupid game anymore,” she whispered. “If I have to kiss one of the Redwynes I may be sick.”

“If you kiss either one of the Redwynes I may have to kill both of them.”

That would be a welcome sight for true, though it certainly wouldn’t end well. But she didn’t want to think about that.  Didn’t want to think about kissing Horas or Hobber or Joffrey.  Didn’t want to think about Sandor kissing Merry or Megga or Margaery.... 

“Oh, I really _may_ be sick,” she lamented miserably, knowing she sounded like a child but for once not caring.

“So be sick,” he shrugged.

 _What an odd thing to say._ Before she could question him about it he gagged, making a loud near-honking noise that sounded like a cat trying to bring something back up.  Oh.  She followed his lead and did the same, the tiny space filling with the sounds of feigned nausea, _horrific_ sounds no lady should ever make, until he bellowed-

“Seven hells!” and the door banged open.

Sansa covered her mouth and eyes so no one could see her giggling and kept her hands firmly over her face as he carried her out of closet and out of the room, the cries of their companions following them- “What did you _do?”_ “Well done, dog!”  “Should we call a maester?”  “Sansa, are you ill?”   

“Do you think they believed it?” she gasped when he set her down in the hall far away from the festivities. “Will Joffrey be angry?”

“Joffrey likes a show. We gave him one, didn’t we?”

“We did,” she agreed. _We made him think the Hound makes me sick._ It was a sobering thought.

“Come, little bird. I’ll take you to your room.”

“And... you won’t go back to that game?” It wasn’t a question; it was a request.  An _order_ , really, and he knew it though he didn’t seem to mind, his eyes sliding over towards her, mouth twisting into a tight smile. 

“No. I won’t go back.”

They walked in comfortable silence to her chambers, side by side, a lady and her escort and nothing more. It was a completely appropriate and uneventful journey, nothing of note, till he opened her door for her... and followed her in. 

And _then_ she was nervous.  Outside of this room she could pretend she had some measure of control in the things that happened between them though she knew even that was an illusion.  But _inside,_ the door firmly shut, there was no place for pretense.  The _last_ time he was there... in fact, _every_ time he was there... 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Another order, this one blunt, and not particularly well-received if the way he bristled was any indication, the blank mask he usually wore slipping back into place. She understood that, she supposed- the seeming reversal of her affection was confusing even to her.  She did not want him in her chambers, but the request had insulted him- had _hurt_ him- so she soothed that wound with a kiss.  And another.  And another.   

Many long moments later when he finally bade her good night she prepared herself for bed, all alone.

No, not all alone. Not anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY


	6. Slip Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to paperflowercrowns and sarahcakes613 for helping me with the logistics on this one, but don't blame them if it doesn't make sense. Which... it doesn't.

“There you are,” a familiar voice said behind her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Sansa had to keep herself from bristling; after going to great lengths to find a place where she could be _alone_ , turning to find Margaery smiling at her was not a welcome sight. 

“Walk with me.”

“Are we to play another game?” she asked; even hidden under lightness the complaint was obvious, but it earned her only a smirk.

“Would you like to?”

This time she _did_ bristle, casting a disapproving glance at her friend and future queen before falling in step beside her.  As much as she adored Margaery she was still a little annoyed with her after that trick she played with the dagger game.  And true, everything had ended well, but that was mere luck.  Luck for them _all_ , really.  If Joffrey had been in a fouler mood he might not have taken all the missteps so well and the possibilities were endless when it came to the punishments he meted out.  Sansa knew full well the kind of cruelty he was capable of when he was angry, but Margaery... she had no idea what misery awaited her. She would marry Joffrey and bear his children and be his queen forever, and even a courteous and capable and beautiful woman like her couldn’t come out of such a battle unscathed.

“Something troubles you.”

“I worry for you,” Sansa answered, meaning it.

“Don’t. I know how to handle Joffrey.” 

The confident words settled like stone in her stomach. “I thought I did, too.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” her friend said firmly, smile growing wider as if amused by Sansa’s concern. “Everyone thinks I’m nothing but a pretty face, that I know nothing but the courtesies I’ve been taught.  But I know more than they think I do.  More than _you_ think I do.”

Margaery tugged at her arm, leading her from the cool shadows of the Keep walls towards the sunshine of the gardens.

“They’ll think the same of you, you know- that you’re just a smile and a curtsy, nothing but your husband’s puppet. They’ll discount you.  You can either accept it... or use it to your advantage.  Do something they’d never expect.  Something... surprising.”

Sansa knew a little about being surprising- not that she could ever tell Margaery, but she had certainly been surprising _herself_ lately, hiding her own secrets.  And not just about her anticipated escape with Ser Dontos, either, but something new, something that was at once happiness and madness, dangerous and exciting.  The Hound never came to her room anymore, just as she requested, but he certainly had no qualms about yanking her into a dark alcove, making her _‘eep!’_ in surprise.  It was never enough time together, hiding there in the shadows, since he’d send her on her way again _after_ he’d kissed her soundly, but _before_ anyone got suspicious.  Only once had she seen another person before her vision could clear and her lips stop stinging- Lady Margaery, who had looked straight through her.  Much like she was looking at her now.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Sansa answered quickly, relieved when one of the Kettleblacks- she wasn’t sure which one- approached them and prevented any more conversation.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, nodding once then turning to address Margaery. “My Queen.”

She wasn’t a queen, not yet, but he still treated her as one, taking Margaery’s hand in his and awkwardly bending at the waist as if he hadn’t had enough practice doing it. It was a shameful display.  Worse than that, though, was the way he held her hand much longer than necessary then pressed a lingering kiss into the back of it.

Sansa was aghast, but Lady Margaery... wasn’t.

“Ser Osfryd,” she purred back at him, almost shy, a little sly. “You’ll be at the gate today?”

“I will.”

“Perhaps I’ll call on you, then.”

Ser Osfryd Kettleblack smiled broadly at that, just as sly, then nodded and strode away while Margaery picked up the thread of conversation like nothing unusual had just transpired.

“People see what they want to see, seek out proof of what they already believe. Not many will really look at a situation and examine it with eyes wide open but if they do... they’ll see all sorts of _surprising_ things.  Do you understand?”

“No,” Sansa muttered, mostly to herself, mostly _unlike_ herself, because this entire conversation was far too confusing for her to remember her courtesies.  Margaery’s eyes flared in frustration but softened after only a moment. 

“What I’m trying to say is... you deserve happiness, _wherever_ you find it.”  She leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek.   “Sister.”

And after a quick squeeze of her hand and another kiss, Lady Margaery left her there alone in the gardens. For half a heartbeat Sansa wondered if maybe she _did_ know the secrets she’d been hiding but... no, she couldn’t possibly. 

The rest of the morning was spent in her own chambers, lounging on her bed in a most unladylike fashion and flipping through a book on the Maiden but not truly reading it, only looking at the pictures. She’d just decided to work on her embroidery when the Hound stepped suddenly into her room, closing the door quickly behind him, a canvas bag deposited on her bed and her clothing tossed into it. Sansa was so startled by this turn of events that for a while all she could do was gape at him, half-convinced he wasn’t truly there.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, continued rummaging through her belongings, looking under her bed and on her shelves and in her bureau, throwing things about haphazardly but never saying a word.

“Sandor?” she asked quietly so no one else would hear. “What are you _doing?”_

“Grab your cloak. We’re going.”

“Going?”

_The little bird repeats whatever she hears._

The exchange was familiar, achingly so, and for him as well judging by the way his head snapped in her direction. He remembered.  She had wondered if he did. _She_ certainly still remembered- the mocking, the rage, the fear, the anguish... she remembered.  There was none of that now, though, nothing but a hard look when he hoisted the now-full bag over his shoulder.

“Wait for me in the godswood.”

And he was gone.

Curiosity and _not_ obedience had her following his orders, meager as they were, donning her cloak and exiting the holdfast.  Ser Meryn held the bridge and hardly glanced at her since even the Kingsguard knew she spent many hours in the godswood every day.  No one ever really questioned her anymore. 

The godswood was predictably empty and she took the opportunity to pray, asking the gods for guidance. Asking for guidance was one of her usual prayers since it seemed she always needed it, but now the request seemed especially appropriate.  Something was happening, she was certain; she just had no idea what it was.

The Hound came for her astride his enormous black courser, lifting her up onto the warhorse with only one hand, not bothering to dismount and _still_ not saying a word.  By the time they left the godswood- several bags strapped to the saddle and her perched demurely in front of him- Sansa’s confusion had grown.  It all seemed incredibly suspicious, even more so when he turned them towards the enormous barbican that guarded the Red Keep and it occurred to her that he meant to take her into the city though she didn’t see how that was possible.  The City Watch would never let them go, she _knew_ that, so she wasn’t surprised when a Gold Cloak stepped in front of them, holding up a hand to make them stop.  One of the Kettleblacks; she wasn’t certain, but she thought it was the very same one from earlier.

“What’s Joffrey’s dog doing leaving the Keep?” Ser probably-Osfryd demanded.

“Orders from Lady Margaery.”

The man hesitated, suddenly unsure of how to proceed and eyes flicking quickly in Sansa’s direction.

“And... you have to take _her_ with you?” 

That was a good question, one she had been wondering at herself, but instead of answering Sandor simply produced a scroll from his cloak.

“From Lady Margaery.”

Ser Osfryd raised a brow but took the heavy parchment and unrolled it, examining the words for a terrifyingly long time before returning it and waving them through, closing the gate behind them and... that was it. They were outside the Red Keep and it had been almost frighteningly easy.  More than that, though, was that Sansa was no wiser now than she’d been only moments before and could feel herself growing frustrated with the lack of information.  Why did everyone just move her around like a pawn to be played with?   

“What does that paper say?”

“That all potters wishing to offer services for the King’s upcoming nuptials should report to the gate.” His answer was simple, but also... nonsensical, and he didn’t offer any more of an explanation till he saw her squinting up at him.  “Osfryd can’t read.”

“What does he _think_ it says?”

“Don’t know, you’d have to ask him.”

The gate had disappeared from view by then and Sandor coaxed his horse to go a bit faster, dodging stacks of boxes and assorted wares lining the streets; Sansa had to bite back the urge to shout apologies to the people jumping out of their way.

“So... we’re going?”

“I told you we were.”

Sansa looked around again- forwards, where no one was looking for them, and backwards, where no one was chasing them; forwards again, then back. Not a single person paid them any mind other than to dodge from their path. This was not how she envisioned any type of escape.  They weren’t sneaking in shadows in the cover of night while a battle raged around them, but walking right out of the city in the middle of the day.  No one would be looking for her in the middle of the day, no one would be manning the gates out of Kings Landing in the middle of the day, no one cared at all what any of them did in the middle of the day.  It was the best and easiest time to leave, precisely because it was so... surprising.

“But why now?”

“Because of your betrothal.”

The words hissed like an accusation but... how did he know about Willas Tyrell? And how could he even be _angry_ with her about Willas Tyrell?  A marriage would have to happen, surely he knew that, and she had never promised him anything that might indicate otherwise.   Had he stolen her so she couldn’t be married away?  Would he actually gamble both of their lives to prevent something that would happen eventually anyway?  Would he really risk her _future_ for his own happiness?

“Lord Tywin found out about your little secret betrothal,” he grumbled down at her without looking. “He made his own plans.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were going to marry you to the Imp.”

Sansa recoiled.  “They couldn’t!”

“They could. And they meant to.”

He wasn’t lying, she could tell, and... oh gods, married to the Imp?  Being Lady Lannister?  Having Lannister children?  At Casterly Rock?  Forever?   Sansa looked hard up at the Hound- Sandor- and realized all at once that he _hadn’t_ risked her future for his own happiness, he’d risked _his_ future for _her_ happiness. 

“But how do you know?”

“Heard your little queen talking about the maiden cloak Cersei was having made for you. Foolish of her to mention it where people could hear but I wasn’t going to complain.  Then she asked me to take this scroll to the crier... seemed like a good time to leave.  Wouldn’t get any easier, that’s for sure.” 

That certainly _did_ seem like a conveniently good time to leave.  How odd. 

“And... the man at the gate?”

“Didn’t expect that,” he shrugged. “Lady Margaery told me to use her name if I had any trouble.  Of course, she assumed I’d be going alone...”

She started laughing; maybe Margaery _did_ know what Sansa had been hiding.  

“I know what you’re thinking,” the Hound growled at her, proving he had no idea what she was thinking. “But getting out was the easy part.  Staying out is the trick.  They’ll be looking for us, don’t you doubt it.  We’re in for a treacherous journey.”

“Well then... don’t you think you should have _asked_ me first?”

“Last time I asked, you said no.”

“Last time you asked, you put a knife to my throat and threatened to kill me.”

“Guess we could have _both_ done things differently, hmm?” 

She couldn’t help but gape in a horrified and unladylike manner- the implication that her decision to not follow a drunk man was some sort of flaw in her judgment was too preposterous to take seriously.

“Apology accepted.”

He glanced down at her but didn’t object, which must have meant he agreed that he should apologize. He owed her a _true_ apology, though, and she would spend the following weeks teaching him to say it.  However long it took, since they wouldn’t have much else to do seeing as how it would be just the two of them on the road.  Sleeping side by side every night.  Sharing meals.  And conversation.  And... warmth.  This could get awkward very quickly.  Her heart was galloping even faster than the horse.  He’d accused her of using her body to buy him- even though she _hadn’t_ \- but he’d also said it was the only coin he wanted.  Would he now demand a payment?

“Stop that,” he snapped.

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking that.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Girl, I can read you like a book.”

She raised her brow at him. “That presumes you know _how_ to read books.”

Her words surprised him, she could tell; they surprised her too. When had she grown comfortable enough to tease him?  When had she learned that this was something he would accept?  Surely it meant something.  About him.  About _them._

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I know.”

She _did_ know, had known it for a while, she just never could put it into words that made sense.  He might have been frightening and angry, may have said all the worst things at all the worst times... but he wouldn’t hurt her.   In fact, he was the closest thing she’d ever known to a true knight though she would never tell him as much, the embodiment of the brave hero in every story she’d ever known.  She could easily imagine him slaying a dragon or rescuing a maiden or... playing the lute?  No, definitely not _that._ But he _was_ rescuing a maiden and she couldn’t stop the warmth blooming within her when she realized they were living a song.   

 _‘We never truly outgrow the things we love as children,’_ her mother had told her.  She supposed that was true.  She _did_ still love those stories, and for a moment she wondered if maybe he did, too.

“You were wrong.”

“About what.”

“About the stories and the songs. You said they were lies, but they weren’t.”

“What are you on about now?”

“The Lady and the Toad, where a beautiful lady turns a toad into a gallant lord with one little kiss. Like I did with you.”

“Not a buggering lord, and definitely not gallant. And it was more than one little kiss or have you forgotten?”

“As you say, _my lord.”_

“Stop it, _my lady.”_

She laughed at that, lightly, easily, like she hadn’t laughed in ages. So he wasn’t exactly gallant, that was true... but she would work on that.  And he would let her.

“They should change the story from ‘the Lady and the Toad’ to ‘the Princess and the Dog.’”

“Leave me out of it.”

“’The Princess and the Frog?’”

He huffed once but the scowl broke, showing a flash of the boy beneath.

“I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :: maniacal laughter ::
> 
> Thanks for every hit, kudo, and comment, I appreciate every one!


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